Tag Archives: Travels

In light of today being the 4th of July – for non-American readers, this is the day the 13 colonies (which eventually became the United States of America) declared their independence from Great Britain – here are my thoughts on fireworks and the questions they raise about trauma and community.

Last week I sat across my craigslist kitchen table from one of my nearest and dearests eating a late dinner – side note: there is something about summer’s glorious sunlight extending late into the evening that messes with my internal clock and I rarely get hungry until it is dark, so dinner tends to hit the table closer to nine more often than I care to admit. July 4th came up in conversation and I “casually” mentioned how I did not think I would be watching any fireworks this year because fireworks are still a bit too much for me.

And then came the unexpected response, “You know they’re just fireworks.”

“Um, yeah. But that’s not the point”

“Why?”

“Think about it for a moment.”

He pauses for a few seconds, and then speaks, “They sound like gunshots.”

I nod.

“But you know they’re not. You know they’re fireworks. So what’s the issue?”

This was the moment I realized the width of the gulf separating me from him, and, if I’m honest, from everyone at home.

The person with whom I was speaking, grew up with guns in an area of the U.S. where guns are a normal part of life, and has been shot at (oh, the perils of hiking in places with fervent, gun toting and touting landowners). But, more importantly, a few months after my return stateside, he declared his desire to process my time in South Sudan with me. He is the ONLY person from home who expressed any willingness to walk into the beauty and shadows two years in South Sudan cast on my life. And yet, in that moment, in that statement, “You know they’re fireworks,” he declared his limit: he would go no further with me.

Just like that I found myself without an ally. Once again, I was am alone. Ah, welcome back aloneness, my old “friend.”

Whether it is time, distance, lack of imagination, or inability to envision something beyond one’s reality, the returning expat who has experienced insecurity inevitably finds herself alone whilst surrounded by her home-based friends/family who communicate a need for her to get over it, no matter what it is.

I do not why fireworks are so prevalent in Oakland, CA, but they are, occurring multiple times a week. A few nights ago a neighbor set off a large firework and the offending “BANG!” was loud and close. My body tensed up immediately. And so began the internal standoff of mind v. body. I knew it was only a firework but my body would not relax.

Experience shapes us. And my time in South Sudan did just that. A year and a half surrounded by guns, violence, war and the resulting human tragedy and trauma, is not something a person forgets just because she leaves a specific geographic region. I am still on guard, ever aware, connecting certain sounds to certain actions and results even when those sounds are imposters wrapped up in gunpowder to delight and dazzle.

How do you explain to the person from home who knows you best what a sound does and means to you? Even if the person understands, is he able to understand there is not a time limit on the effects of some experiences?

In the U.S. we like progress, moving forward, ever morphing into a new and, arguably, better self. In light of notions of American exceptionalism and hyper-individualism, we self-help. We self-medicate. We set five years plans and create 30 before 30 lists. We are constantly in flux, rarely stopping or reflecting. And in this, and, likely, in part due to it, we lack a structure, a culturally acceptable means of dealing with traumatic experiences. Time passes and people are expected to “move along”/“come to terms with” with whatever happened and return to normal, or, at the very least (and for the sake of everyone else), “fake it ‘til you make it.” This expectation is for the good of others, not for the person processing or suffering. Other people do not want to be reminded of life’s complications, difficulties and incongruences. People do not want to think about how injustice for one is injustice for all. Mourning, sadness, uncertainty, it and anything that happened in past should be dealt with quickly, quietly, neatly, and left in the past. However, this is at odds with how we process, heal and grow. We do not simply forget and move forward. Healing may come but the process of healing involves dealing with the messiness of life, and sometimes scars do not fade.

In light of this, what are you to do when people who were once (and may still be) your people (unintentionally?) communicate that you should know better, that you should be better?

Right now, I seek out my people. The people who have experienced something similar and are able relate to the experience, or the tiny fraction of the population who are honest, humble and healthy enough to be truly compassionate and empathetic without pushing one towards a solution/resolution. The people who will not rush processing or set an arbitrary deadline after which their interest and willingness to be present expires.

But my people are not here. My people are far from here. Some are in Southern California, some on the East Coast, others in London, the field, pretty much anywhere but here.

Last month I met with my spiritual director. While discussing my transition back to living in the Bay Area, I mentioned I have met a lot of people but have not found “my people.” And without missing a beat, she responded, “You won’t. There are too few of you.”

And there you have it. Aloneness.

For past me being alone and loneliness were interchangeable. I embraced loneliness, stewed in it, hated it. However, I have learned we are not designed to be isolated from one another; we are designed for community. And community is messy, restorative, costly, and sustaining.

What are we to do when community escapes us in our current location? What do you do when your community is not tied to place?

This is my reality. Yet I am hopeful a community will find me and I will find it, even here, even among the fireworks. And as I seek it out, I will remain open, rebuff loneliness and not cut myself off. I not allow the gulf or the people on the other side to dictate the when and how and why of my experience (and processing). I will continue to speak of what was and what is. I will keep speaking until my words reach someone who understands. And then, we will stand together in community.

Even now, in broad daylight, fireworks are going off. Tonight I either force myself to watch the fireworks and with each boom tell myself to relax, or I will put on headphones, crawl into bed and watch something on Netflix that will make be laugh, a lot. Either way, I will focus on the beauty in hopes it and I are strong enough to hold the shadows at bay.

Two and a half months. It has been two and a half months since I was last here. Two and a half months since I took a hot shower. Two and a half months since I ate a proper green salad. Two and a half months since I smelled air sweetened by fresh produce and the ripeness of earth. Two and a half months since I last slept on a mattress on which my body does not contour itself around pointed metal springs.

Two and a half months. It has been two and a half months since I was last here. Two and a half months of daily hugs and warm smiles. Two and a half months of John Steinbeck novels. Two and a half months of learning from scratch and from mistakes. Two and a half months of sweat (with “hot season” still to come) and a few tears. Two and a half months of fashioning a new family from a group of strangers. Two and a half months of wrestling with decades old demons and, while bruised and battered, standing firm. Two and a half months of living out of who I am – scars, beauty, questions and all. Two and a half months of doubting and rejecting certain fiction-based beliefs long held and culturally accepted. Two and a half months of grace upon grace. Two and a half months of releasing, relinquishing and removing false bindings, so hope-filled contentment and patience may take root.

Two and a half months; and a lifetime to go…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Skype (14.09.2013)

In lapses
and
delays
words spoken over one another
share time
oceans and continents separate.

Yes, it has been some time since I last posted — a reoccurring theme for the last handful+ of posts. In a little more than a month, however, I will be embarking on a new adventure. And with more than a few people asking how they can stay up to date on my comings and goings during said adventure, I have determined to resurrect this blog into something useable; as opposed to the blood/emotion-letting turned photo journal turned slapdash-who-knows-what, all of which had a few playlists (via 8tracks) sprinkled in for good measure.

The adventure.

After years of internal questioning, wandering, deconstructing, and healing, I will be moving . . . scratch that . . . I AM MOVING to Juba, the capital of the Republic of South Sudan (“RoSS”). I will be working for an international humanitarian aid organization that provides multi-sectoral emergency relief and recovery assistance, i.e., health and nutrition, shelter and infrastructure, and WASH (water, sanitation and hygiene).

Yes, South Sudan is a separate nation state from Sudan. South Sudan is the youngest nation in the world, not quite two years old; following a prolonged civil war, RoSS attained independence on 9 July 2011. Study an updated atlas — a map is available HERE. Start a Google news alert about RoSS. Read some interesting books about Sudan and RoSS. The world is big and we often forget about the places and people we neither see nor regularly read about in our national press.

The blog.

I will endeavor to write and post on a monthly basis about what I am learning and witnessing whilst living in RoSS. Given my love of the photographic medium I hope to integrate photographs into my posts once I am established and better understand the cultural and historical mis/use(s) of photography in RoSS.

With one month and a few days left in my beloved home state of California I am attempting to love well the people around me, eat heaps of Mexican food, enjoy delicious West Coast fermented beverages poolside or at my preferred establishments, seek beauty in the nearby mountains and along the coastlines, and tick off a host of items on my to-do list.

May honesty, beauty, gratitude, grace, and bravery rule today and all those that follow.

I wish I wanted to apologize for my absence, but I am not sorry. The last several weeks brimmed with excursions to visit friends and siblings who bring joy to my heart, exploring new places and rediscovering old ones, thoughtful discussions with brilliant minds, as well as my first time driving in snow in three years.

For whatever it is worth, I am compiling current sources of inspiration (i.e., videos, photos, articles, whatever snags my attention and causes me to pause) on my recently established tumblr site, which you will find HERE.

The amount of new music I had piling up in my “Potential Blogtracks” playlist was starting to get a wee bit out of control. Instead of inundating you with “Download/Listen HERE” hyperlinks, I create you a delightful little mix entitled “Musical Candy”, which is available HERE for your listening pleasure.

I spent the weekend in la Valle de Guadalupe celebrating the union of lives and hearts of a dear friend (whom I have known since middle school) to a wonderful man. The weekend was full of laughter, rich conversation, delicious artisan wine crafted by the father of bride, a handful of Patron shots, and the warmth of Mexican hospitality. ¡Felicidades Ana y Nathan!

11.8.2010 – 4×4* — The only thing I could “concentrate” on was organizing the recipe binders and boxes I received from my grandma. I’m not sure what it was about the 1950s suburban housewife and the affinity for jello, mayonnaise, and shortening, but, needless to say, those recipes found a new home in the recycling bin.

While conducting a major purging/fall cleaning over the weekend, I came across the following poem I clipped from the Edinburghian literary magazine, Small Fry Magazine‘s first issue (Dec. 2001):

the first love

green light of river,
invertebrate night slipping
under water,

I know the distance of you,

the voice of you,

the hardly gone but absent heart
of you.

The balcony, a tree bleeds
spring
rain washed Bottlebrush hush of
afternoon school ten years past.

This is the first love, this
blue sky blue I
follow, awhisper, to the other life,
the time well
where
there is the silent curve of your
hand in my hair

where
breeching moons
reach for each other

and separate, a necessity of orbit.

I remember,
this place,
from which I rise like a phoenix,
a time blossom, born.

I am home,

this sunshine,

eye of this -my-life,
born, breaths,
first love,
old love,
love from earth opened
like a wound, fearless.
And you, and they, and love’s
trajectories, scars across continents,
the debris of this first love.
I gravitate to where I began.
Centrepoint,
and land like my heart beating.